


Something Wicked

by VikingWitchling



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Crime, Death, Demon, F/M, Gods, Monster - Freeform, Mystery, Old Norse, Witch - Freeform, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VikingWitchling/pseuds/VikingWitchling
Summary: Someone or something is killing women in New Orleans. Freya and Elijah are set on stopping them.Rated Explicit for violence and triggering content.





	1. 1

The girl lay motionless on a stained, filthy mattress. Her eyes were wide open. Unmoving.

The one-room apartment housed nothing but that dead girl, that mattress and a rusty, old sink. There was no bed; no television, no shelves, no toilet; it reeked of old food, of sweat and unshifted filth. The smells alone were enough to make one's stomach turn. Debris littered the floor; cigarette butts and broken liquor bottles, and in the far left corner lay a used condom.

The girl was clad in a short, black dress, barely reaching the top of her thighs, and torn fishnet stockings clung to her skinny legs. Across her pale neck blue bruises had blossomed in the distinct shape of fingers, the fingers that had squeezed the life out of her days earlier. Her small breasts peeked out from the top of her dress, both of them covered in bloodied, savage bite marks where the flies now gathered to feast and lay their eggs. Her full lips were chapped and slightly parted, allowing a glimpse of yellowing teeth damaged by the excessive use of narcotics and tobacco.

A rookie police officer keeled over to relieve himself of his breakfast, the scent of bile mingling with that of the decomposing corpse burned itself to everybody's memory and refused to let go.

"Remind me again why we're here?" I murmured to Elijah at my side, keeping my voice low so to not be overheard by the police and forensic scientists that gathered around the body in intervals.

"What do you see?" Elijah asked me, and I directed my gaze back to the girl.

"A murder victim."

Elijah frowned briefly in annoyance as if he thought I wasn't putting up my best effort.

I raised my brows in confusion, stabbing my brother with an irritated look right back. That'd show him.

On the drive over here from the French Quarter, he hadn't even mentioned we were going to a crime scene. In fact, he had lured me out under the pretences of getting coffee and ice cream, and though I wondered why such an adventure would take us all the way to West Riverside, I had remained optimistic.

Sneaky Originals.

The apartment complex was already swarmed with cops by the time we got here, but Elijah had no problems getting the two of us past the barriers that kept the rest of the public out. I wasn't sure if he had used compulsion or other means, but no one even batted an eye at us as we moved to examine the unfortunate victim.

"Look again," he urged, gently nudging me forward.

"What am I looking for?" I sighed in frustration. Honestly, his vague approach to this whole thing was starting to become ridiculous.

"What killed her?"

My eyelids narrowed as I looked back at Elijah over my shoulder, incredulous.

"How am I supposed to know?"

He gave me another glower, his jaw tightening just a tad. I got the feeling he thought I was being difficult. I felt the exact same about him.

"Use your...sight," he gritted out.

I removed my hands from my coat pocket and folded my arms across my chest.

"I'm not a psychic, Elijah," I hissed, a little more agitated than I usually would have been. He had promised me coffee after all, and I had none. His betrayal still stung.

"I can't just look at people and instantly know their life stories."

"No," he agreed. Unlike me, Elijah managed not to sound like the air being let out of a balloon. "But you can see things I–" he paused to subtly gesture to the other people in the room, the ones that did not even seem to notice we were there, "–we, cannot. Supernatural energies."

I frowned, casting a glance back at the dead body. One of the forensic scientists were taking photos of the bruises on her neck.

"You think something supernatural did this? Is that why we're here?"

Elijah nodded, his eyes on the girl as well.

"I know it. She's not the first. I just don't know what."

The bloody bite marks on her breasts would indicate a vampire, and yet I had seen my fair share of vampire attacks over the centuries. The teeth mark didn't match. No fangs. Besides, from what I could tell and had overheard from those now examining her, she had not been drained of blood.

"What makes you think this wasn't the work of a human?" I asked my brother, shuffling a little closer to him to keep our conversation just between the two of us.

He gently took my arm and guided me a few steps away, our backs turned to the others.

"According to my contacts at the city morgue, the other victims, much as this one, were all female, all bitten, and all strangled. As well as...violated." Elijah hesitated before uttering that last word, a look of distaste briefly ghosting across his features.

My lungs seized and I couldn't help but sneak another glance back at the girl, seeing her from a new perspective. There was nothing worse than rape, and my heart suddenly ached for her. I forced myself to take a deep breath and turned back to my brother.

"Sounds like a serial killer. Human serial killer. It's not like atrocities like this haven't occurred before."

"The saliva from the bite marks," Elijah continued, "the semen found inside these women, it's not human. Nor animal. Nor anything my contacts at the morgue has ever encountered before. That includes vampire and werewolf. They're stumped. Which is why they contacted me. We may have a new predator in our city, and I would like to stop him before it gets out of control."

That explained why Elijah had taken an interest in this case. Ever the protector.

I turned back to the dead girl. The forensic scientists were pulling away and asking for the body to be wrapped up and brought back to the morgue. A new group of people instantly gathered around her to make the arrangements, closing the window of opportunity for me to get close.

"I can't see anything," I told Elijah, watching as his face fell in mild disappointment. "However, if I was to get access to the body somewhere private, I may be able to get a few answers."

He seemed intrigued by the thought.

"I'm sure we can visit the morgue once the workers have finished their examinations and gathered evidence. What are you going to do?"

I slowly started for the door. Without the body present, there was no more use in us staying here.

"I'm going to ask her a few questions," I said, watching my younger brother with a grim expression. "But I doubt you will appreciate my methods."


	2. 2

"So, what are you going to do to her, exactly?" Mateo Ortega, pathologist and potential supermodel if his looks were anything to go by, as well as Elijah's contact at the New Orleans Coroner's Office, asked as he opened the chamber and pulled out the remains of the most recent victim. She was covered head to toe by a sheet until Ortega drew it back to reveal her face. She hadn't changed much since I last saw her three days ago. Decomposition had set in long before she'd been found murdered, after all. But this time her eyes were closed, and some sort of implement placed beneath her chin ensured her mouth remained firmly shut as well.

"I'm going to summon her spirit," I explained, handing Elijah my bag of supplies to take a closer look at the departed. I gently caressed the side of her face with my fingertips, hoping it would spark some sort of vision and save me the trouble of performing the spell. But alas, nothing. Nor could I sense her spirit was still lingering as some do. She'd most likely moved on the moment she died. And under normal circumstances that was good. Except, in this case, it meant more work for me. "If we're lucky she might be able to help us find her killer."

I stepped back and took a look around the room in all its sanitized glory.

"Can we move her to that table there?" The table in question was a metal slab centred in the middle of the room. The one most autopsies were probably performed at.

Ortega didn't look all that willing, but he shrugged his broad shoulders in consent after a few moments. Elijah put my bag down to help him shift the body from the refrigerator chamber as delicately as possible. When the deed was done, I eased the sheet down a little lower to expose the girl's shoulders and cast a look back at Ortega.

"Do you know her name?"

The pathologist fetched a folder from a nearby desk and opened it, giving its contents a cursory glance.

"Her name is Christine Sharp. 23 years old. Arrested once about a year ago for prostitution and possession of meth. No family to speak of."

"So, no one is coming to see her body after today?" I asked, handing my brother a few white candles to help me spread them out on the floor around Christine in a circle.

"No," Ortega said, eyeing our actions cautiously. "She's scheduled for cremation later this afternoon. Why?"

He sounded suspicious all of a sudden.

"What are you going to do? It's not going to be something sexual, is it?"

Elijah and I stared at him with identical deadpan expressions.

"I'm a necromancer, not a necrophiliac."

"Right." Ortega looked momentarily ashamed, but his handsome features rid itself of that expression as soon as I reached for a scalpel on a tray of medical instruments.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

I inhaled sharply and fixed the man in question with my best death-stare. This seemed to have no impact on him whatsoever. At least not until Elijah put a hand on his shoulder and made sure to give me some space to work.

"She works better with quiet," my brother declared, straightening his tie and peering down at his wristwatch with mild interest. As if this whole affair was tedious to him.

But I knew better. Beneath that suave and cool exterior lay a morbid fascination and the need to solve a mystery. He wouldn't have insisted I come here otherwise.

I put the scalpel to Christine's chest, just beneath her collarbone, and cut quickly and carefully through dead skin and flesh, freeing a small piece from her torso, no bigger than a penny. All the while I could feel Ortega's gaze on the back of my neck, his concern we would be discovered almost palpable.

The candles circled around Christine and I lit with a sweep of my hand, and I settled all my focus on her, blocking out the sounds and scents from the world around me as I began to weave my magic.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Every man feeds the conqueror worm."

I paused to place the piece of flesh on my tongue, taking it within myself and chewing. An act that would normally make my stomach turn. But at the moment, vibrating with power and my mind set on a higher goal, the act didn't even make me flinch.

"I eat your flesh, so obey, you must.

By my command, moist earth turn.

Give up your dead, their secrets to tell.

Christine Sharp, I call you from Hel."

The candles flickered, as though someone had just opened a window, but otherwise, nothing happened.

"She's in Hell?" Ortega hissed.

Elijah winced. His young vampire friend seemed to be giving him a headache.

"Hel, not Hell. The underworld," my brother responded, and I was glad to know he remembered as much of Esther and Mikael's teachings.

Silence ensued for another few seconds before:

"Is she with us now? I can't see her."

"Give her time." I pulled the sheets back over Christine's head again to cover her. In all likelihood, she would be fully aware she was dead. But she might not deal well with seeing her own decomposing body. Who would?

We waited. A few minutes passed. And then, finally, Christine, appeared. She was wearing the same clothes she had when she'd been murdered, and the bruises around her neck, the bite marks to her chest were on full display. It didn't seem to bother her. Nor the fact her short skirt was bunched around her waist, her breasts peeking out from the edges of her bra.

She stood next to the table, watching us serenely. Silently.

Ortega bounded to the other side of the room and emptied the contents of his stomach into the sink, looking back at the spirit every now and then in pure terror. Perhaps we should have made him wait outside?

I ignored him and gave a gentle smile to the ghost.

"Hello, Christine. I'm Freya. This is Elijah and Mateo. We need to ask you some questions about your death."

This didn't seem to surprise her, but she didn't speak. She only tilted her head to one side, curiously, and watched me.

Realisation dawned, and I reached for the scalpel again.

"Oh, right. I'm sorry."

I pressed the tip of my finger to the sharp blade, a few drops of blood welling to the surface of the small incision, and I offered it to her. Christine's lips closed about my finger and she sucked eagerly.

"To give you a voice."

Ortega dry-heaved.

I pulled away after a few moments and put the scalpel away again, fixing my attention back on the girl.

"Do you know how you died?"

She nodded, her gaze drifting to her covered corpse.

"He killed me." Her voice was lighter than I had expected, almost like that of a child. It made her seem so innocent despite her apparel.

"Who?" Elijah coaxed gently, his eagerness for answers hindering him from remaining silent. "Who killed you?"

Christine's brow creased in thought, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

"I don't know his name. He was a client. First-timer. But he was old."

Regret claimed her features as she peered up at us from underneath her lashes as if seeking forgiveness.

"So old...I didn't think he'd be able to hurt me. He looked so fragile."

Looks could be deceiving. Elijah and I knew that all too well.

"Do you remember anything else about him? How he looked? What did he sound like? Anything that can help us find him?"

She thought another moment.

"Old. Dark skin. White hair."

She seemed to struggle to find the right words. Then, as if a thought occurred to her, she took a step closer to me, holding her hand out.

"I can show you?"

I hesitated only a little before closing the space between us, allowing her to place her palm against my cheek. Flashes of images swirled before my inner eye in a cacophony of sound and colours, making it hard to separate one from the other. There was pain, so much pain. And fear. A wide smile grinning down at me, gleeful and cruel. Strong hands locked around my throat until I couldn't breathe, an agonizing intrusion between my legs.

Then finally, a face.

I gasped and pushed away from the spirit, bile rising in the back of my throat and I struggled to keep it down.

Elijah was at my side in a flash, his arms holding me steady as I tried to shake the images from my mind.

"What did you see?"

My fingers clutched Elijah's arm, digging into the fabric of his suit as I watched Christine fade from sight with a sad smile on her face.

"I know who did it." I murmured, though a part of me was still unable to believe it.

The face that had burned itself to my memory belonged to Arthur Wilson.


	3. 3

It had been very difficult to convince Elijah to let me come here on my own. He'd demanded I tell him what Christine had shown me back at the morgue, but I refused. Arthur Wilson's sweet old face still swam in my memories, mingled with the horrid pictures Christine had shown me of her murderer. Same face. But not the same man. It couldn't be.

I had met Arthur a few months earlier by pure chance. He was a lonely, old widower with a dachshund and a walker. A sweet person who had never intentionally harmed anyone in his entire life. That I was sure of.

We'd had tea a few times since our first meeting, talking mostly about his past and how much he missed his wife. I didn't have the heart to tell him his wife's spirit still lingered in the house. I hadn't had a chance to talk to her since that first time, but it was my belief she refused to cross over to the other side until her husband could join her. It was sweet.

And Arthur was human. Mortal. How an eighty-something man who could barely stand up on his own would manage to rape and murder several young women was a mystery to me. And yet...it had been Arthur's face Christine had shown me.

I worried if I told Elijah he would rush to the old man's house immediately to demand answers, and potentially, punishment. I couldn't put Arthur through that. At least not until I'd had the chance to find answers of my own. I felt I owed him that.

I didn't knock on the door as I usually would, more cautious now I had reason to doubt my own senses. I pushed the door open slowly and peered inside. The hallway was much the same as last time I'd been here, cluttered with little tables carrying stacks of old newspapers, and mismatched rugs that were a severe fall-risk. Especially for the elderly.

Standing just beyond the threshold, I waited. Listened.

Arthur's dog, Fido, would normally have waggled down the hall towards me in greeting, but today he did not come. That worried me.

Closing the door behind me, I moved further inside, casting a quick glance into the abandoned kitchen on my way towards the living room. All the curtains were drawn shut. That too was unusual.

"Arthur?" I called quietly, probably too quietly for a man of his age to be able to pick up. "Arthur?" I tried again, a little louder this time.

Nothing. Not a sound. Not a movement.

Stepping carefully through the doorway to the living room, I was brought up to a sudden halt as my gaze landed on a body on the floor. My heart contracted painfully at the sight of Arthur's small, frail form...so still. Unmoving. I didn't have to kneel by his side to check his pulse to know he was dead. And yet I did as if needing the reassurance.

His skin was cold and wax-like, making me think his death had not occurred today. How long had he been lying here? And where was Fido?

The latter was revealed shortly after as a new form was thrown to the floor beside Arthur's head, this one small and covered in fur. The dog's eyes were wide open, but like his master, he did not move.

My lungs seized and I whirled around to face whoever had managed to sneak up behind me, intending to snap their neck by magical means. But I never made it that far. My view was obstructed by a large baseball bat swinging at my head. It connected, and pain exploded inside me with a blinding whiteness. Which seemed ironic given that my consciousness faded into darkness moments later.

* * *

I kept seeing a light in the distance and I tried to move towards it. It seemed like the right thing to do. But something kept pulling me back, pulling me back to that dreadful place I'd rather not visit right now.

Pain.

My head throbbed, informing me just how little it appreciated being introduced to a baseball bat, and even though I could deduce I was lying down, I was dizzy. The room seemed to spin.

My breasts hurt, probably because they were being squished against the hard floor, and I considered propping myself up for more comfort but found I couldn't move.

I was paralyzed! Or my hands had been tied up. Either way, it was highly inconvenient timing considering the pair of biker boots I gleaned nearing me.

A groan fell from me as I shifted, trying to push myself onto my back so I could at least get a look at my attacker's face. It didn't happen. My aching head demanded attention and refused to allow any of my remaining body parts to co-operate.

I tried hard to push the haze away, but it wouldn't budge, making me wonder if there was more than just potential brain damage to blame. Had I been drugged? Sedated? That would explain why I couldn't summon up my magic with the same ease as I usually would. In fact, it seemed to be lodged so deep down inside me that for a moment I feared it had disappeared.

"I thought you might come for him," a male voice said from above me. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Smooth and velvety.

A booted foot pressed to my side and rolled me over as if I weighed nothing. Sadly, that was not the case.

I groaned again, blinking up at my new surroundings, equally uncomfortable now my hands were bunched beneath my back.

It took a few moments for my vision to clear enough for me to see the face that was smiling down at me. It couldn't be described as anything other than extraordinary beauty. Chiselled features, pale eyes, and warm olive skin. Shoulder-length dark hair that curled slightly. Broad shoulders and lean muscles. Like a Greek God. Or something out of a fairy tale.

And yet there was something very disturbing about what I saw, and once again the drug-theory came back into play. Every now and then something shifted around him, just beyond the edges of his body, as though there was something inside him that couldn't quite settle. A shadow of sorts.

I didn't know what to say, and not just because my brain kept trying to distract me with things like the wallpaper-pattern or how dust particles danced in the beam of a single lit lamp. The whole situation just seemed...off.

"You...expected me...personally?" I heard myself ask, and the man's smile grew wider. Wolfish.

"Of course. You're the reason I came."

Oh. That was nice.

Wait, no...it wasn't. It was confusing and potentially frightening.

"Who are you?"

He sank to his haunches beside me, eyeing me with interest as though I was the intriguing one in this scenario. He had that all wrong.

"I have no name," he said, and I suddenly realised the words that fell from his lips were not English. They never had been. They were Old Norse.

"You're from my world," I murmured, more to myself than him, switching to my first language as well.

He shook his head, his beautiful hair swaying.

"Helheim."

The world of the dead – those not deemed honourable enough to spend the afterlife in Valhalla or Folkvangr. But it made no sense. No one could escape from Helheim and the goddess who ruled there. Not until Ragnarok.

The man read my puzzled look correctly and leaned down to whisper, his lips hovering just over the shell of my ear.

"You would call me Demon," he whispered, his warm breath making my skin erupt in goosebumps.

Demons. I had known such a creature was not limited to the Christian faith but had yet to encounter one from my own. I craved information, to know how he had come to be, and yet now was not the time. Despite his beauty, despite his smiles and gentle caress, I sensed nothing but hostility radiating from him. He was dangerous. Very much so.

I swallowed.

"You killed those women? Raped them?"

He pulled back to look at me, that grin back in place as he eyed me, his gaze finally settling on the junction between my thighs before returning to my face.

"All for you."

His confession stung. I didn't like the thought of women being harmed in a ploy to get to me.

"To get your attention. To lure you out to play."

I could have told him it was hardly my attention he had caught, but that of my younger brother. But it didn't really matter.

"Why?"

The demon turned away for a brief moment, reaching for something beyond my line of vision.

"Because I could. Because it was fun. Because it made me hard."

I slammed my eyes shut in disgust. He was baiting me, could no doubt sense the sorrow that was beginning to seep into my soul from the realisation I had gotten innocent young women murdered.

"Why?" I repeated, firmer this time, my teeth gritting together.

When he returned to look at me I caught sight of a straight razor in his right hand. It gleamed ominously in the dim light and the edges of my vision darkened with fear.

Dammit! Adrenalin was supposed to make me pee myself and then run away, not pass out!

I was brought back sharply again by the sensation of cold steel cutting through flesh, and a scream ripped through me as it scored across bone. Eyes wide open, I watched in horror as the demon toyed with the razor, most recently dragging it over my rib bones. My shirt had been torn open sometime during my little nap, and from the looks of it, he had explored various places along my torso with his sharp toy. It burned and stung and my eyes watered anew even though I had not given them permission to do so.

Noticing I was awake, the demon brought the razor to his mouth and licked my blood away. The desire in his eyes was so strong it almost deterred from the extreme agony I was in. Almost. I clamped my jaw shut, forcing myself not to whimper, to not allow a single sob to escape. Effort completely wasted when he got up off me and rolled me over onto my stomach again, putting painful pressure on already suffering wounds.

I groaned. Growled. Breathed harshly.

I felt like I was being punished, but I did not know the reason. And the pride that once again kept my mouth firmly shut denied me the opportunity to ask.

The demon answered anyway.

"Your God. The one you call Alföðr," he sneered, and I felt his weight press down on the back of my thighs as he straddled me. He tore at my shirt again, discarding the fabric completely before leaning down over me to begin his game anew. This time on my back.

"He banished us to the dark, blocked our entrance to this world. We waited for thousands and thousands of years until I found a gap in his defences."

He started slowly, and the cuts he placed upon my skin was almost tolerable. Foreplay.

"What do you hope to achieve here?"

My voice was muffled against the carpeted floor, but he heard me.

"It's simple," the demon said, "Your Odin is getting weaker. For the past millennia, his followers have abandoned him for new deities. Now is our chance to strike. Finish off the rest and Odin will be no more. A God is nothing without those who believe in him. He is just an idea conjured by the human mind. Ideas are harder to kill than humans, but they  _can_  be killed. Forgotten."

So much information for my poor brain to comprehend, and it took me longer than it normally would to absorb most of it.

"So you're going to kill all of us who believe? That will take time. We are many."

That was a lie. But compared to a few centuries ago, our numbers had been growing. Especially in Scandinavian countries. A religion reborn.

I hated how feeble my voice had become, and how it carried such evidence of my distress. Shaking. Tearful.

"We've waited forever. A few decades is nothing on the grand scale. And we're starting at the top."

"Me?" I laughed sardonically, regretting it the moment I did. Breathing hurt. "Hardly."

He leaned down over me, took hold of my hair and yanked my head up from the floor to meet my gaze. Unwillingly, my eyes blurred with tears again, the pain in my scalp too sharp to ignore.

"You've been His for a thousand years, Witch. While others died and faded, betrayed their gods in favour of the new ones, you remained. You prayed, you sacrificed, you believed...You may just be one of Odin's greatest sources of power. Your destruction will weaken him greatly."

He had a point. And still...he made me sound too important. I was a devout follower of my Norse gods. Always had been. But they did not rely solely on me. My Odin would persevere. He was a warrior, after all. The god of wars.

"Go on, then," I dared, spurred by my pain. I needed a reprieve. I needed time to think. To do anything other than...hurt. "Kill me. I welcome your attempts. But know this: whatever you do I will rise again. And I will hunt you and yours to the end of the world. I'll burn you alive."

It was a promise that even in my weakened and fearful state I intended to uphold. Not just for the sake of my gods, but for my own. The need for vengeance ran strong in my bloodline.

"Kill you?" The demon asked, jabbing particularly hard with his knife at my back, tearing another muffled cry from me. "No. You mistake me for a fool. You think I can't smell the immortality on you, girl? No...your body cannot be destroyed yet. But there are other pieces of you that can be shattered beyond repair. That will leave you too broken to remember anything but your own misery."

It became harder and harder to focus on his words, and as I felt that familiar sensation of darkness tugging on me again, I wanted nothing more than to give in to it.

Until the demon took hold of my jeans and roughly yanked them, along with my panties, down my thighs.

Once again my eyes shot open, and my entire body went rigid with fear.

No, no, no… This was not happening. I couldn't let it.

I trashed feebly beneath the weight of him as the sound of a zipper coming undone tore through the room. It only seemed to excite him further, pure lust in his voice now.

"I'm going to lick the fear from every inch of your body. Scream for your God. Let us see if he will save you."

It was meant to be a taunt, and yet instead it served as a reminder.

I stilled, gathering what little concentration I could muster.

"He already has."

It took only a thought. My familiars rose from the floor like spirits; my two ravens solidifying to flesh as they charged for my attacker, beaks and talons aiming for sensitive eyes. The demon, taken by surprise, shifted off me, growling and shouting profanities at the birds that swarmed persistently around his head.

I forced myself to lift my head, to roll slightly so I could watch the scene before me. Blood ran from the demon's face where Huginn and Muninn had scratched him, but in the end, they were only ravens. They could not do much further harm. He swatted them away with an infuriated growl and started for me again.

From my chest, just beneath where his knife had cut minutes earlier, my wolf, Ylva, burst forth in a show of pure energy. Unlike the ravens, she remained a spirit, but this did not deter her. She sank down in a protective crouch in front of me, growling viciously as the demon neared. Then, in a flash of quick movement, she lunged for him.

I winced as my wolf went right through the demon's body, but was brought up short when I saw her emerge on the other side with her powerful jaws clamped around something slick and black. The body, the man, fell limp to the floor, as lifeless as Arthur and the dog. But the demon...the shrieking, squirming demon that had inhabited him remained in Ylva's grasp.

It was huge, at least nine feet tall, and its entire body was covered in sleek, black scales. Its fingers were long and thin, shaped like talons that could easily rip through flesh. And its teeth...row upon row of razor-sharp fangs could be gleaned behind pulled-back lips. It didn't appear to have eyes, but somehow I didn't think that would stop it from navigating through the room with ease.

It howled in agony as Ylva shook it, her jaws clamped around its throat as if he was a chew toy. No matter how wildly the demon thrashed in her grasp she did not yield, and as if knowing something I did not, she pulled him closer and closer to the window where my ravens were already busying themselves with the curtains.

As soon as a beam of sunlight penetrated the room and landed on the demon's scaly body, it disintegrated, little by little until all that remained was a pile of ash.

Silence settled, and I allowed my head to fall back onto the floor.

I couldn't stop the tears now, nor the shaking and trembling of my body as fear evaporated and was replaced with pain and humiliation.

Ylva whined and lay down at my side. The ravens cawed, waiting for further instructions, and eventually, I was able to whisper:

"Get Elijah. Only Elijah. Please hurry."

They vanished immediately to tend to their duty, and Ylva and I were left alone.

"Freya! My God…"

Elijah's voice urged me to lift my head, and looking at him I realised he was uncertain of how to proceed. His eyes were wide with shock and sorrow, his mouth open in horror as he surveyed the scene before him.

"What…? How…? Did he…?"

"No," I whimpered, shifting uncomfortably in my spot on the floor. "He tried, but... Elijah, please hurry."

He hesitated only a moment longer before rushing to my side, ridding my wrists of the cable ties that had bound them. He seemed frightened to touch me as if scared he'd cause me further pain.

He wanted to feed me his blood at once, but I refused. As much as my injuries hurt, it was nothing compared to the burning humiliation I felt, the sting to my pride…

On my insistence, Elijah helped me to stand, though he carried most of my weight, and carefully he helped me pull my underwear and jeans back into place. He removed his jacket and placed it around my shoulders, trying to preserve some of my dignity, even though it was far too late for that.

And then he simply held me. He held me as I cried myself hoarse; for the murdered women, for Arthur and his dog, and for that piece of innocence (or perhaps arrogance) the demon had chipped off an already lacking block.


End file.
